


dawn of dusk

by ofwickedlight



Series: This Blood Sheds [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Jaime Lannister, Canon - Book, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, POV Jaime Lannister, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Rare Pairings, Robert's Rebellion, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: Arthur is ordered to leave King's Landing to fight the rebels—to leave Jaime alone with Aerys. Jaime mishandles resisting his farewells... and the feelings that plague him whenever Arthur is near.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne/Jaime Lannister
Series: This Blood Sheds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671571
Comments: 16
Kudos: 76
Collections: ASOIAF Rarepair Week





	dawn of dusk

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a sequel to ["this blood sheds softly,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740502) but can be read separately.

* * *

“It’s time,” Arthur told him.

Jaime stood beside his desk, dug his nails into mahogany. Eyes watched everything but Arthur. “I see,” he said.

Silence. Jaime did not see him, but felt his gaze, nonetheless. Jaime knew what he awaited. Peace. Humble, obedient nodding that only an apprentice could give his master. An acceptance.

Fuck that.

The faintest sigh drifted just past Jaime’s ear, the only sign of Arthur’s frustration that he would let free. He hated this as much as Jaime did. Or perhaps he misliked Jaime’s pouting. Perhaps he was disappointed in him. Either way it did not matter, because Arthur was leaving, and so was the Prince, despite how Jaime had begged him, begged them both.

“Ser,” Arthur said, and Jaime’s spine went taut at the lilt, the tone—that hardness laced with silk, the seriousness bordering on anger, and yet, soft, somehow. But a command, still. “Look at me.”

For half a breath, Jaime thought of defying him, because Arthur was leaving, leaving without him, leaving to fight, and Jaime was a man now, a Kingsguard in his own right, not the starry-eyed boy Arthur had knighted, and he was _leaving,_ and Jaime owed him _nothing._

But his gaze found Arthur’s, anyway. Standing just by Jaime’s door, beyond the bed and hearth. There was always something oddly poised about Arthur’s stance—graceful and open, and yet, tense, the frame of a warrior, tall and strong and lean. Even from the other side of the chamber, Jaime could see his face. Arthur was a master at hiding his emotions, the creator of the blank face, but he allowed Jaime to see it—the emotion in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. Stern, and sad, all at once.

Jaime spoke first. “Ask Rhaegar,” he pleaded. “He will listen to you.” Gods, he was pathetic. But he didn’t care. He’d grown past caring the moment jade embers flew and fell, and Rickard Stark’s burning flesh slushed and sloughed and melded with melting armor, and Brandon Stark’s chokes bled into screams.

Arthur didn’t know that, though. Arthur didn’t know anything.

And it was his turn to look away, now. “I cannot,” he murmured.

Jaime’s smile was sharper than Dawn. “Cannot? Or will not?”

Pain took Arthur’s face then, dulling his pretty purple eyes, and at the sight, the strangest half-bred tear of guilt and glory took Jaime over—but Arthur’s sternness returned quickly, as if it had never left.

“He has ordered you to stay,” Arthur said. “We follow our orders. You know this.”

Orders. Rickard Stark’s charred corpse. Queen Rhaella’s faint cries, muffled by an oaken door, and the thrashing in his heart, the burning in his eyes as he stood vigil and _listened,_ because the king had only ordered him to guard the door, not go beyond it. Not save her.

Orders. Yes, he knew. He knew more than anything.

Something like a laugh or cry nearly burst past Jaime’s lips, but he caught it just in time. Instead, he gave Arthur another little smile. “Then by all means, Ser,” he said, voice far colder and biting than the laughter he had aimed at. “Do your duty.”

Arthur stared at him, firelight flickering gold in his lavender eyes, and Jaime’s stomach roiled at the disappointment that rained in them, and the exhaustion, and the hurt, gods, the _hurt._

But then Arthur let out the quietest sigh, the smallest breath of defeat, looked away from Jaime, _turned his fucking back and gripped the doorlatch—_

—and Jaime was on him, on him before either one of them knew it, hands on his shoulders, digging, twisted Arthur away from the door, because fuck him, fuck him, _fuck him._ The nerve, the _gall_ of him to look _defeated_ and _tired_ when he knew _nothing—Jaime_ was tired, _Jaime_ was defeated, and Arthur had done this, had done this to Jaime, had made him, created him, honed him, birthed him into this hellish, true world of false knights and feigned honor and _lies_ and let him see, and Jaime wanted to _go,_ but Arthur was _leaving him._

Arthur didn’t fight him. Just watched as Jaime speared his nails further into Arthur’s shoulders, locked eyes with him, scowled. Jaime didn’t know what he meant to do—punch him, scream at him, beg, _Don’t leave me with Aerys, don’t leave, you did this to me, you_ did this _, stay and pay your debt, you pretender, you fucking liar, you_ bastard _, please don’t leave me,_ please—

But then, there was Arthur. Still, windless in the wake of Jaime’s rage, his bared teeth, his wet eyes, his shaking breath, his nails gripping his flesh. The mist to Jaime’s fire. His eyes were soft as lavender lilies, glowing and glittering like stars of amethyst, violet auroras hazing in a moonless night sky, and in the firelight, his dusky skin lit with copper and russet, warm, and there was a strange beauty in his stance, his calm before the lion’s roar, and he wasn’t fighting Jaime, hadn’t hurt him, would never hurt him, _damn him—_

Jaime moved. Raised his hands, grabbed Arthur’s neck—

—and rammed his mouth onto his.

A crash. The hard, softest hit. Teeth, and blood, and stolen breath. Jaime sunk his fangs further, and red iron fell on his tongue, blessed him, filled him. They pressed, clung, and it was steel on silk, a lion’s maw raking rose petals, and Jaime was—

He was—

_Arthur—_

Jaime yanked himself away, watched everything but Arthur. His chest was pounding, and the room had blurred, and fire daggered his veins, and beyond the blood there was the faintest taste of Dornish tea on his lips, sweet but faint, too faint, _too,_ and Jaime _didn’t understand—_

Arthur was in the corner of his eye. Standing just as he’d been before. Jaime felt his stare, and he had to look. Had to obey.

He met Arthur’s eyes. Purple, and perfect, and staring, and Jaime saw _nothing_ in his face, no disgust, no anger, _nothing,_ just—

He was waiting. Waiting for Jaime to speak, and the silence was a deafening pitch, rising, but Jaime could say nothing, only stare, and await the end. _You fool,_ he knew. _You stupid, pathetic, wretched_ child _, it is done now, it is over, you’ve ruined it._ He had ruined it. Even when Arthur returned from battle, he would still be gone. Turned away from Jaime, forever. And there would be no one then, only Jaime, and green fire.

Arthur’s silence went on for eons, his eyes burning the wildest violet, soft and striking all at once.

Then, that strong arm rose, and a nimble hand held Jaime’s shoulder.

The shoulder Dawn had entered, opened, kissed, blessed.

The flesh that had bled in that sept as Jaime knelt and vowed and felt a gentle blade make him anew.

The wound that Arthur soothed, healed, bathed in cooling water.

The _scar._

Hitched breaths flew from Jaime’s throat. He froze.

“It’s all right to be afraid,” Arthur said, voice softer than a snow’s whisper. “Fear not only keeps us grounded, but strengthens our dedication. If we fear failure, we are only more determined to ensure that it never comes to pass, and strive harder to maintain our cause and duties. It’s an essential feeling in every knight’s heart, Jaime. That you have it only proves you were meant for this. That I was right to knight you.”

 _Arthur._ Too kind to sneer at the shared blood on their lips. Too honorable to realize he was telling a lie, and too good to not believe it.

Too blind to see Jaime had already failed.

Tears bloomed in Jaime’s chest, threatened to rise, but Arthur’s grip was on his scar, gentle, anchoring him.

“I won’t be gone long,” Arthur assured him. “In the meantime, remain as vigilant as you’ve always been. Rhaegar would not have allowed you this post alone if he thought you incapable.”

 _Rhaegar thinks me a crutch to quell Aerys’ madness._ “Capable, yet terrified,” Jaime said. His voice was cracked, and wavered more than he liked, but he managed a weak smirk. “I’m sure Princess Elia and the children will feel quite protected.” Queen Rhaella’s name was in the back of his mind, a screaming ghost, but he dared not speak it.

“They will,” Arthur said. His bleeding mouth glistened, and his cheeks looked redder than before, like heat simmering just beneath his dusky skin, but the hearth was burning, and its light flickered brightly over them. _Just shadows,_ Jaime told himself.

But he was close enough to notice it, Jaime realized. Close. They were still in each other’s mist, Arthur gracing his scar, their arms barely brushing, but not quite. An almost embrace. Arthur was only a breath taller than him, and the ends of his raven hair grazed Jaime’s golden curls, midnight and sun, light and ebony, and if Arthur parted his full, soft, bloodied lips just a sliver, Jaime would smell that sweet Dornish tea again.

Jaime did not know how long they stood there, watching one another in an almost embrace. Did not know where the auroras in Arthur’s eyes ended, and began.

But then Arthur gave him the saddest smile, and he knew. “I must go,” he murmured.

 _And I must let you._ “You do,” Jaime said.

Arthur did not move, and for one foolish breath, Jaime hoped. But Arthur let him go. Jaime’s scar burned where Arthur once touched him, burned soft and low and mourning and aching, but Jaime said nothing, did not protest, did not reach, or beg, or confess. Just watched.

Arthur turned his back, placed his hand on the doorknob. Stared at the wooden frame. Then he looked back, eyes bright, and for half a breath, he seemed pained, _wanting..._ but it was just the shadows.

“Ser Jaime,” he said, and Jaime didn’t hear the title—just his name. Just Jaime. And it had never sounded so beautiful. So desolate.

So ending.

Jaime nodded. “Ser Arthur.” His voice only wavered a bit. Just a bit.

One last fond, sad smile on Arthur’s face.

And then, the click of the hinge. Emptiness. Jade embers, and laughter, and screams beyond an oaken door.

Blood.

And the taste of sweet Dornish tea, faint, too faint.


End file.
